Show Me A Way Through This Darkness
by agoodtuckering
Summary: The Doctor sees Clara during one of his lectures, although he doesn't immediately recognize her. He just knows that he knows her from somewhere. She's so familiar.


He saw her. He knew she was there. His eyes kept roaming the room but they were always drawn back to her. Why? She was so _familiar._ Everything about her. Those cheeks, those lips. Those big, brown eyes. That leather jacket. That hair.

In all the classrooms and all the lecture halls, in all the world, why did she have to wind up in his?

He blinked back a series of confusing emotions, waiting until the lecture hall and its occupants were dismissed before calling after her.

She looked nothing short of shocked. Truly. Turning back around to him, a brow arched, she tentatively asked, "Yes? May I help you?"

He curled a finger at her as if to ask her over. "Come here, please. If you would. You're a bit old to be sitting in for a lecture of mine, aren't you? Not that I mind, truthfully. A lot of men and women go back to university these days. A lovely trend, actually. But… I can't help but feeling like we know one another? Do we?"

She smiled, beside herself with joy for a fleeting moment. He hadn't changed. Still the same Doctor she knew. Prattling on in that way of his. She watched as he put a finger to his lips and she simply stood her ground. "No," she said, although her heart was breaking in her chest. That is, if it even still had the purpose to beat. It had stopped doing so ages ago. "No," she went on, "I don't believe that we know one another. I'm sorry. Fantastic lecture, by the way. I was utterly enthralled."

It hit him then — like a ton of bricks. She was the lass from the diner. She was…

"Wait—" He stopped himself, lashes fluttering rapidly as he struggled to form a proper, coherent sentence. Actual thoughts formed into English words.

Her expression flashed, changed, brows furrowing. And in that moment, she suddenly understood. It was a chance, coming here. It was a chance, seeing him again. But, and although she loathed herself for it, she just _couldn't_ stay away. She needed to see him. Not for selfish reasons, but to make sure that he was getting on well. To make sure that he was okay.

"Clara Oswald—"

The name tumbled from his lips with a cacophony of emotions. Bells went off in his head. Bells, alarms, whistles. And his breath caught in his throat.

She knew. In that moment, in that single moment in Time and Space, she felt it. It was like a supernova. Emotions imploded inside of him and she was helpless to it all.

"I was wondering if you'd ever remember," she heard herself say, trembling now. This was dangerous territory to be delving into. The Universe couldn't afford it. _He_ couldn't afford it.

It started off slowly, then all at once. His memories, triggered by the sight of her before him for the second time, came back to him. It drowned him in emotion. After all, though, the neural-block was Human-compatible. Perhaps it just wasn't enough to withstand a Time Lord's mind. The memories were there, hidden away in a dark recess of his mind. They were coming to the forefront again. Quickly, in an overwhelming sort of way, and leaving him utterly winded.

"I should go," she suddenly said, beginning to panic. "I need to leave. We can't. I need to. I'm so sorry that I showed up here today. I just had to see you."

He snagged her by the wrist, perhaps a bit more forcefully than he meant to. His grip loosened, an apologetic expression crossing his features. And then he spoke. His voice broke and wavered, eyes filled with emotion. "Don't you _dare_ leave me again, Clara Oswald."

She fell into him as he turned her back towards him. Was it the years of loneliness that did it to her? Was it her knees giving way under the pressure? Was it the desire to be held by those arms again? She couldn't say.

He drew her in for a warm, loving embrace, his eyes squeezing shut and remaining that way as he held her close. "I'm so sorry," he heard her whisper into the fabric of his Bowie shirt.

"I think, on some level," he said, "I understand what you did for me. I know why you did it."

He'd been in the same situation with Donna Noble. He knew. He knew in the worst way.

"There's something I should have said a long time ago," he murmured to her, still breathless from the onslaught of old memories. "I love you, Clara Oswald. I never stopped. Even when… I couldn't remember your face. It was agony."

She found herself staring up at him with wide eyes, shock etched into her features. "Doctor, stop." She felt herself placing a hand upon his chest, comforted only by the steady 'thud, thud' of his dual heartbeats. But then she began to push him away from her.

He merely shook his head. "Don't stop me," he said quietly. "Don't. There are things we should have said ages ago." Just then, as he spoke, a memory came rushing back to him. A memory of being down in the Cloisters with her, of hearing her say the words, 'I love you with all of my heart, Doctor.' A memory of her whispering his _true name_ to him, of her touching his face and allowing herself to really _feel_ him and _hold_ him in a gentle, intimate way for the first and last time after her admission. A loving way. A caring way.

All at once his lips came crashing down on hers. It was altogether breath-taking, earth-shattering. She clung to him, too shocked to do anything else in that moment. A hand reached for the Sonic in his pocket and pointed it towards the lecture hall's doors. They locked without any trouble, thankfully.

"What are you doing?" she asked him, hands grabbing onto the lapels of his old coat. She'd missed that soft, worn velvet. She'd missed the smell of spicy soap and the feel of his stupidly ragged t-shirts and jumpers.

"I'm kissing someone that I should have kissed years and years ago," he mumbled to her, determination in his tone, "when I had the chance."

Her breath caught, although it didn't necessarily need to. Her respiratory system was at a stand-still. Caught between one heartbeat and the next, one breath and her last. There's where she stood, quite literally, and wavered over its precipice, never to tumble and fall unless she ultimately returned to Gallifrey — which she'd always meant to.

"Kiss me, then," she said, giving in and cupping his warm face with her trembling hands. "Kiss me like you mean it."

Years of repressed feelings seemed to come out in that moment, bubbling up to the surface. Years of desire and love and heartache. All of it. And oh, it hurt.

"I remember," he mumbled breathlessly. "I remember everything." And then his hands were suddenly all over her. They were caught up in the rush of things, caught up in the emotions. Beside herself with joy, she finally, _finally_ let herself laugh happily and wind her arms about his shoulders. "Did you just lock the doors?" she asked, her voice laced with something else, laced with _desire._

All he could do was smile against her lips. "I did," he mumbled to her, completely at a loss for words right now. He could say no more. At all.

How could this woman, this beautiful woman, love him so deeply? She came back. She came back to see how he was. Because she couldn't stay away, not forever.

"I'm sorry if this seems a bit hasty," she said, struggling for breath and snatching him by the lapels of his coat, "but I just really need you out of these clothes." There was a teasing note to her voice, a soft and subtle grin tugging at the very edges of her lips. He never knew, up until now, how much he'd missed that tone. Then again, he couldn't _remember_ how much he missed that tone from her.

His hearts skipped a few beats as she pushed him backwards, almost knocking him right over. He fell back but she caught him, despite their ridiculous height and weight differences. They were both laughing, so stupidly in love and happy, despite what this all meant.

Up the steps they went, to his desk, and then he stopped her.

They couldn't very well do what she was in the mood for in his bloody lecture hall, now could they? What if someone knocked at the door? What if someone _found_ them?

"Wait—" He paused. "Let's get somewhere else. To talk."

'Right," she thought. 'To _talk.'_

Talking wasn't what she had on her mind. Nevertheless, she followed him out of the lecture hall, her hand clasping his — just like it used to, all those years ago — and guiding her out into the hall. But things were different now.

She wasn't the same woman. And he certainly wasn't the same man she'd left behind.

They were older. On the inside and out.

They were full of ache, heartbreak, and years of worrying.

She clung to his hand and let him lead the way. After all, this was _his_ school and he was the professor. Professor Doctor? That didn't sound quite right. What did he call himself these days? Just the Doctor with his students?

They slipped into his office, thankfully without anyone noticing — and that included Nardole.

"Right. Um, Doctor, I'm sorry. We should talk—"

He cupped her face, seizing the opportunity to kiss her again. It was almost rough. His tongue plunged past her lips, her hand cupping his face. It was so satisfying. In every single way. In every way that could possibly be imagined. And yet — despite that tenderness — it set his skin aflame.

She shoved him backwards, letting him land in a plushy chair that sat in his office. She climbed into his lap, only having one thing in mind. She needed to feel his skin against hers. It was the one thing she thought of every night, every morning, every moment that she ached to be away from him.

The way she draped her body over his, the closeness, the heat between them. He was breathless before he knew it, drawing away for a gasp, their noses brushing. "What are we doing?" It was soft, whispered. Husky. What if someone came to check on either of them? He was terrified of that possibility.

"What we've both secretly wanted to do for a long time now," she answered him with a confidence behind those words that made her chest ache. Silently, she slipped out of her leather jacket and reveled in the way his gaze dropped to watch. "Help me, please," she said.

There was something so achingly wonderful, so perfect about that moment between them. Her confidence was enough for the both of them right now, if he needed it. They had wanted this for so long. He had wanted her since he was a different man — one who wore a bowtie and spoke in a tone much gentler, with a pocket-watch draped over waistcoat buttons and tucked into a pocket.

"Gods help me, but I have for so long," he confessed to her, trembling fingers reaching to help her with her blouse. "Here, let me," he said.

A moan was torn from him when she reached out to lay a hand over the bulge in his denim trousers that was making itself rather known. He gasped, utterly overwhelmed and burning with desire for her.

Years. It had been _years_ since he'd seen this woman's face. And now, here with her, he had his memories back. It all flooded back to him. The emotions were too great to withstand. He crumbled. His resolve was gone.

The air practically crackled between them — like fire.

"Doctor," she mumbled, a bit shocked by what she felt beneath her fingertips. "Is this for me?"

She'd never imagined he would feel quite like this before. Not that his trousers left very much to the imagination…

He was so, well — _large._ Thick. Her eyes went wide at the realization. She soon realized he was unbuttoning her blouse, lips passing a line of hot, open-mouthed kisses down along her clavicle, a hand placed at the small of her back to keep her from tumbling over. "All for you," he mumbled to her, his voice low and husky.

He had never thought very much of himself. Not in this body. Not for her. Not in _that way._ He never had. How could she desire an old man like himself? But, he wouldn't dare to question it. He couldn't bear to. If she wanted him, she was certainly going to have him.

There came a knock at his office door and suddenly she was popping up from his lap. After a frantic look about the room, she dashed for the desk. She hid beneath it as he went to answer it, straightening himself out as he went — all whilst wearing a particularly grumpy expression.

Upon answering the door, he saw a fellow professor gazing back at him with a furrowed brow. He smiled before speaking. "I had a few questions about the faculty meeting this week," the younger man said, although his temples were showing signs of aging. They were gray, almost white, but there wasn't evening a single wrinkle upon his face. 'Must be nice,' the Doctor thought to himself.

"I'm busy," the Doctor suddenly said. "I'm sorry. Really. I'm right on my way out." For good measure, he added a quiet, "It's a family emergency. Come talk to me in the morning, alright? I'll be in early."

And with that, he shut the door. He took his Sonic out, locking it, even going so far as to soundproof the room, before tucking it away. Clara was there, at his desk. He almost laughed upon noticing that she'd gently turned over the pictures he had there. Guilt, perhaps.

She curled a finger at him, muttering to him. "Come here, daft old man. I don't bite."

He closed the bit of distance between them, drawing her up to her normal height and all but sweeping her off her feet. His lips found hers, tongue ghosting along her lower lip before tentatively slipping past the barrier of her teeth. Their breaths commingled, tongues entangled. It was pure bliss. And for that moment, it was as if no time had passed — as if years hadn't gone since they last time they had seen each other.

"I love you too much," he heard himself say, hearts pounding as his hands dropped to work away at her clothes. Off came her top, then the lacy bra beneath. She even stopped him, for a time, to brush the coat from his shoulders. The shirt he wore soon followed, falling into the ever-growing pile of cotton on the floor.

He was murmuring her name, uttering soft words of endearment. And somewhere along the way, love and affection gave way to passion and desire and need. He backed her up again until she was against his desk, belly against the cool wood and her cheek pressed to a hand. She was moaning in anticipation, shuddering at the sound of his zipper lowering. His belt followed, clanking as its clasp was opened. Her fingers went white-knuckled on the tabletop.

As he lowered her skirt, he let his bare belly brush her back. His voice was lowered, brogue thick and heavy. "How often have you thought about this, Clara?" He wanted, no — _needed_ to know. _Needed_ to hear her say the words aloud for him.

The moment his hand dipped between her thighs she was lost. Lost to the pleasure, lost to her desire. Lost to it all. And she struggled whilst trying to form any words.

"Every night since we parted," she managed to get out, suddenly and utterly breathless for him. His fingers explored, taking their time, a thumb caressing the warm bundle of nerves that he found there — her clit.

She felt amazing. Like everything he'd ever imagined. He wondered how he could have _ever_ forgotten about her. How he could have ever allowed himself to forget the sheer depth of his emotion, of his love and care and affection for her.

But as he pressed his lips to her upper back, as he let them linger, he discovered that something was missing. Her heartbeat. The _pain_ he'd felt that day came back to him, leaving him aching and throbbing and hurting all over. It would have washed him away, left him adrift and drowned him, possibly, if not for Clara's voice lulling him safely back to shore.

"I need you," she said. "We've waited long enough, don't you think?"

He busied himself with nudging his denim trousers and a soft pair of shorts lower before slipping closer and beginning to ease his hard cock inside of her. He ached for her. _Longed_ for her. And as he thrust his hips, taking her fully, he found himself crying out. Her name fell uninhibited from his lips, and she'd honestly never heard anything more beautiful. There was no sound more precious to her.

Overwhelmed in only the best ways possible, she reached behind her for his hand and listened — with such concentration, and a need to remember this perfect, amazing moment — to the sounds of his breaths, the way they hitched, and to the moans that tumbled from his lips.

Her legs just about threatened to give out as he took a moment and remained still, buried deep inside of her. Tentatively, she tugged him down to her. Her cheek turned, lips finding his throat for a moment, gently laying down a few soft kisses. "Make love to me," she whispered. "Show me the stars."

He began to roll his hips with her pressed to the desk, standing up straight again and touching every single inch of her that he could manage with his free hand. Clara, Clara, Clara. Everything. He needed to feel her this way, needed to have her close. Her hand holding his, being inside of her, the scent of her soap, the sound of their skin slapping together.

"You're beautiful."

The words fell from his lips so easily. And her breath caught. Even as she lingered there, splayed out on her belly and bent over his desk for him. He'd never, ever said those words to her before.

Oh, but she was. She was always beautiful in his eyes. She always had been. He just never knew how to tell her.

His hips crashed into hers, over and over again, and he spared her nothing. They might never see each other again. Gods knew what life would be like tonight. Would she stay? Could he convince her to stay? Would she leave again?

He couldn't help himself. As he moved behind her, hips rolling and thrusting relentlessly, he murmured to her. Quiet "I love you"s fell from his lips, soft pleas, so drastically different from the relentless way he took her — so merciless. But she craved nothing more in that moment.

It was overwhelming. Long, deep strokes, where he gave her all that he had and drew away, only to disappear inside of her again afterward. Their breaths commingled, moans tumbling from their lips as they moved together as one.

He was gazing down at her, brows furrowed and drawn together. Her expressions, what he could see from behind her, did such wonders for him. Just to know what he was capable of with her.

His features contorted with the pleasure she gave him, the sweetest torture, and his fingers — resting by her head — reached out to stroke her jaw and cheek. "Tell me you love me," she whispered softly. "Tell me again, please."

Her breaths came slowly and evenly, soft moans accompanying the sound of their bodies sliding together. She was already floating in a cloud of bliss. It was difficult to believe that anything could ever be more exquisite than this. If only she had a pulse that he could feel fluttering beneath his fingertips.

"I do love you," he struggled to get out, voice hoarse and breaths ragged.

She looked up at him with her love-laden eyes, her expression one of complete trust and absolute adoration. Her cheek turned to press against his fingertips that had been stroking her cheek, eyes closing to focus on his gentle touch. She wanted this to last forever, to extend to the end of time. _Impossible._ But at least she could hope.

His body collided with hers with every thrust, every time he disappeared inside of her. It was beautiful. Every single thing about it was beautiful, and he was reveling in the moment. There he found himself on the edge. For her. But he slowed his movements, gasping and shuddering, moaning and sighing, wanting nothing more than to have her climax along with him.

He was leant up on his arms, gaze resting on her features and trying, for the life of him, to memorize every single thing about today. The way she gazed up at him, the way her features contorted with the utmost pleasure. The way she grappled for his desk corner to hold onto. The way her cheek turned to nuzzle the hand he had stroking the soft skin of her jaw. It was sweet, sexy. He never thought he'd have this — nevermind have it after all that had been through.

With her, in her arms, buried deep inside of her. He'd never, ever felt so deeply, intimately connected to another. Not like this. She was everything to him.

How many times had she dreamt of this? The Doctor telling her that he loved her, showing her with his body. More times than she could count. How many times had _he_ dreamt of this as well?

Her muscles clenched, pulling him in stronger and stronger with each consecutive thrust. Her climax was building steadily with each merciless and insistent stroke.

And when he could hold on no longer, when she begged him to give in and let go, he finally allowed himself to climax. It was Earth-shattering. He cried out — suddenly rather thankful that he'd soundproofed the room with his Sonic earlier — and sunk his teeth into her shoulder. Pleasure trickled down the base of spine, heat pooling in the pit of his belly, before he exploded. That's what it felt like. Like a supernova.

He was clinging to her from behind, a hand grasping her bare shoulder as he begged for her to follow. And she did. Without question. She was already lost, too far gone to stop herself. It was beautiful to him — watching her lose control in the midst of a powerful orgasm.

It was such a vulnerable thing.

In truth, they had been more vulnerable to one another in the past. Raw. Emotional. But this — this was beautiful and tender and brutal. He'd never felt connected to another on this same level before. He'd never loved another like this. But River came close. She came so close. He loved that woman with every beat of his hearts.

"Clara, Clara—" He was lost, fighting to catch his breath and gasping for her. The way her inner muscles clenched around him, the way she grasped the edges of his desk. He was helpless to _watch and feel._

"I love you, too," she found herself whispering as they lingered there at the edge of his desk together. "I never thought I'd be able to say those words to you before. But now I can."

He began laying down kisses as he drew away, his lips brushing along her spine. He made his way up to her pale shoulders, to her neck and her throat. It was tender and affectionate and she basked in every bit of the attention he gave her. He showered her with it.

And for a moment, if only a moment, it felt like they were old lovers. In a way, he supposed, they were. They were cut from the same cloth. Now that he had her in his arms again, he didn't plan on ever letting her go again. He couldn't.

"Doctor—" Her voice cut his thoughts short. "Doctor, what are we doing?"

There was emotion in her tone, evident in the inflection in her voice. It stung. Oh, it stung. Utterly spent, too exhausted to fight about this, he simply wound an arm around her middle and said, "I have struggled to exist and _be_ since the day you left me, Clara. Don't leave again. Stay with me. I can't handle this Universe without you."

He knew the moment she gave in. He felt it. Between the buzzing of his thoughts, of her own — he was slightly telepathic, after all — and the way he felt her shoulders sag as she leant into his embrace.

"I won't leave you ever again," she whispered. "I couldn't bear to. But I _know_ that I should. I'm just not strong enough to walk away."

His cheek came to rest on her bare back before he eventually drew away again, completely. "I lied, all those years ago, when I told you that I'd accepted it. That it was right. That I accepted what I'd done, because I knew I'd broken the rules, and I lied. And I don't feel sorry for it now."

Isn't it funny, how one chain of events can tear someone's whole Universe away, but how another could bring it all back? Life was strange that way.

She lifted her cheek, noticing that it had been resting upon a book. _Vivid Darkness,_ the cover read. And as she flipped to the dog-eared page, she found that she had to swallow the lump in her throat.

 _You burn like a candle_  
 _Inside my soul,_  
 _Showing me a way_ _  
Through this darkness_

He was too busy trying to tug his trousers back up again to notice what Clara's nose was lost in. He had opened the TARDIS' door, ready to welcome her back _home._ A shower, maybe some dinner. Whatever she wanted. And when she spoke, he took pause and quit fiddling with the clasp on his belt.

"No," she said to him, "I won't ever leave you again. I promise you that."


End file.
